


echoing through the snow

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (heavy on the comfort!), (ish?), Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Fluff, Gondolin, M/M, Multi, POV Female Character, Repressed Memories, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Sometimes snowy winters in Gondolin bring back bad memories of the Grinding Ice for Idril, and everything feels so dark and cold. . .Luckily there are people here who can do something about that.
Relationships: Eärendil & Idril Celebrindal, Idril Celebrindal/Tuor/Voronwë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	echoing through the snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WonderWafles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWafles/gifts).



> For WonderWafles - from your Tolkien Secret Santa, happy holidays! *throws confetti*
> 
> I loved your prompt asking about Idril, Tuor, Eärendil, Elwing, or Voronwe, and the deets: _"my main desire for a gift-fic is Idril/Tuor, at any point (Gondolin, the Havens, or Valinor), however the others would be very welcome! Also, I'd like it if it takes place during the winter, or a winter celebration of some sort - not Christmas, of course, but something cozy and snow-filled, essentially"_
> 
> Most of the characters requested have made their way into this story, and it's a bit heavier on the "cozy" side of your prompt, but I had a great time writing this and hope you enjoy!

The Echoriath, the Encircling Mountains that drew their rocky passes shut about the valley of Tumladen, did Gondolin a great service by concealing its place from the creeping eyes of the Fallen One, and all who lived within their majestic shadow knew well that the mountains had long been the salvation of the Hidden City. Stately and imposing, the Echoriath commanded many times the height of even the Tower of the King, and entry into Gondolin could only be won through their ravines, few and hidden and treacherous as those were.

For most in Gondolin, then, the broad shoulders and silent peaks of the grand mountains were a comforting sign of strength and intransience after so many years lived in temporary encampments when they had first set foot upon these eastern shores. But it was not always so for Idril Celebrindal, who had learned from her kinswoman Aredhel Ar-Feiniel a certain fear of finding herself entrapped by the mountains – and who, when winter winds whistled down the Echoriath bringing snow to Gondolin, could not always help but shiver beneath the chill-fingered touch of her own fears.

Fears of ice. Of freezing. Of falling, falling, _falling. . ._

And so it was that the late hours sometimes found her there, standing at the window of her son's nursery and gazing without seeing into the gray-lit world beyond. And so it is tonight, as snow hurls itself against the pane, the very flakes of it alive with mindless fury while the wind behind them shrieks in raging counterpoint. For even to Idril's sharp eyes, the city beyond the royal quarters is concealed by the storm, as if the very stones of Gondolin have been pulled beneath the icy blast while she has been helpless to do anything but watch, just as she had been before. . .

"Itarillë," a voice behind her whispers softly, and even as it does, Idril feels her shoulders enveloped by a soft, heavy warmth – grounding her, returning her to the fire-lit present in which she is safe and Gondolin yet stands, though it might be hidden by a little winter storm outside.

Voronwë, when she turns to face him, is yet fussing with the great fur cloak that he has draped about her shoulders, and he offers her a hesitant smile that does not quite reach his eyes. "My deepest regrets, that I realized too late what memories might attend you during the storm tonight," he whispers, and he does not reach for her as he normally would, instead holding himself in agonized stillness as if unsure whether his touch is welcome. 

But to Idril, it is as if the sight of him – _warm and living and here_ – lends the room enough heat that her feet are finally unfrozen from their place beside the window and the storm. And that warmth is enough that she manages to cross the single step dividing them, Voronwë recovering from his surprise just in time to open his arms. And into them, into him, she falls. 

"It is so cold," she tells him, pressing first her face and then her ear into his chest, seeking his heartbeat. And although Voronwë cannot have made out all her words, spoken as they were into his shirt, he murmurs some soothing noise into her hair as his arms rise to cradle her.

They had been children upon the Helcaraxë together, so many years ago, and if anyone yet living could understand some small part of the fear that sometimes grips Idril, renders her swift silver feet immobile, then it is him, whose arms now form Idril's very own Encircling Mountains against the storm outside.

She laughs into his shirt at the thought, and the stream of soft, gentle words above her head stops. "Princess?" Voronwë asks, hesitant.

"Nothing," she promises, stepping back. Voronwë's arms fall obligingly to let her go, but she knows, even without seeing it, that he still watches with worry as she wipes her eyes. "Where is Eärendil?"

Voronwë's smile comes easier, now that she is speaking again, but Idril had been right – there is still an undercurrent of concern in his eyes when she meets them again. "He is still with his firstfather, and – oh, that is why I came to find you, actually. The prince wishes to avoid his bed a few moments longer, and I was sent as envoy to plead his case."

The distraction of her son's familiar plea to stay up late, and his new ploy of having Voronwë come to ask her instead of asking himself, are enough to chase the last lingering tendrils of frost from Idril's bones. "And how was it you who were made the prince's unlucky envoy, lover?" she asks, amused, fighting down the urge to laugh as Voronwë's smile transforms from bemusement to shyness, complete with the faintest flush.

Nearly ten years now have she and Tuor shared with their lover, and still her words can render this hardened mariner the greenest of bridegrooms!

"I could not say," Voronwë begins, demurring, but Idril already has a good idea.

"It is because you cannot deny your son anything," she predicts, and the gentle accusation causes Voronwë to flush more deeply yet.

"Perhaps," he hedges, and this time Idril does laugh – the tiny, inelegant snorts of amusement that her father has always despaired of but that her husband and lover both delight in.

"And what did the prince license you to offer me, cruel mistress of his bedtime, if I allowed him to scrabble on the carpet with his firstfather for a few moments longer?" she presses Voronwë, when she is able to catch her breath again.

"Offer?" Voronwë asks, his confusion as genuine as his growing happiness to see her darkness lifted, and Idril knows from delicious past experience that she or Tuor – or she _and_ Tuor – can continue teasing their lover for ages before he finally catches on, and flushes the harder for it. But for now, the great fur cloak about her shoulders is growing almost over-warm, and so Idril sheds it, letting the garment pool behind her as she steps back into the encirclement of Voronwë's arms and pulls her mariner down for a kiss.

His eyes are dazed in the very best way when she releases him, but still: "You are no longer cold?" he asks, tentative.

And it is only when she answers him that Idril realizes: no, she is not. Not any longer. "No. I am not cold, mariner, for you have warmed me through and through."

Voronwë nods – still somewhat lost in the taste of her lips, Idril thinks with a small thrill of vindication – and he is being led down easily for another when Tuor's jovial laughter reaches them from the doorway. "Sorry, boyo, but I'm pretty sure this means that it's bedtime as usual."

Idril still manages to catch Voronwë's mouth before he draws back at the sound, and then they are both turning to see the young crown prince of Gondolin pouting at them from his firstfather's arms. Tuor looks completely amused to find them this way, but Eärendil's arms are crossed and his mouth is pulled down; he looks to Voronwë with all the petulant scorn reserved for a traitor.

"You said you would ask Mama if I didn' haveta go to bed!" Eärendil tells his father accusingly, and from his place beside Idril, Voronwë fidgets as if truly rebuked.

"So I did, princeling," he begins, chagrin clear in his voice. "And I did ask her, but,-"

"But, I suspect, he did such a fine job of asking that he distracted Mama," Tuor interjects, altogether too entertained by all of this as he steps further into the room. But still Idril can see the moment when the Man notices the curtains at the window drawn back, and the fur cloak pooled right at Idril's heel, and she sees too the moment when some of Tuor's amusement sloughs away to mirror Voronwë's concern when he had found her earlier. And Tuor glances to her immediately, taking in the way that she hovers within arms-reach of Voronwë's warmth, and he sends them both a smile of pure warmth and affection before stilling Eärendil's attempt at a kick and carrying the young boy over to his bed. 

And oh. Oh. _Oh_.

Idril loves Voronwë for his quiet care, his hesitation, his willingness to be directed where he might best fit. And Idril loves Tuor for his strength, his forethought, his ability to see to two needs at once.

This makes two pairs of strong arms, Idril realizes faintly, and both of them hers – Voronwë's to pull about her shoulders in place of the fur cloak she had dropped, and Tuor's to simply watch and admire for now as he continues to wrestle with their kicking son and tuck him in, catching the young prince every time Eärendil tried to make his escape from his bed.

"Come now, boyo, none of that," he is telling their son with good humor as Idril draws closer to the bed and sits down, tugging Voronwë along with her: "you wouldn't want to waste all your Atya's fine work persuading Mama, would you?" Even when cajoling a fussy toddler and wrestling him back under the sheets, Tuor has the same good grace and humor that he has always shown, and he even winks at Idril with great cheer when she raises her brows at how obviously tired their son is.

"Atya did _nothing_ right," Eärendil whines, making another break for his freedom, and this time Tuor just misses him as he scrambles across the covers. This time, it is Idril who scoops up Eärendil before he can clamber off the bed, and the young boy turns to her immediately, snuggling closer even as he frowns over at Voronwë – who, suitably chastened by his son's censure, removes his arms from Idril's shoulders.

But before she can fall to shivering once more, Tuor is there, settling in at her back and hooking his chin over her shoulder, peering down at the half-Edain child nestled in her lap and sucking his thumb with childish petulance.

"Be nicer to your Atya, boyo," Tuor tells Eärendil softly. "I think Mama was cold when he came to ask her your question, and he went and found a nice blanket for her, so. He did _everything_ right."

"Did he, Mama?" Earendil asks her grumpily, still only half mollified by his firstfather's explanation, and Idril can only nod. For somewhere on the bed behind her, Voronwë makes some small wordless noise – perhaps in agreement, perhaps at a gentle squeeze from Tuor's wandering hand – and the warmth of her family gathered here around her, on this chilly winter night, draws tears unbidden to Idril's eyes.

"But now you're cryin'," Eärendil says, accusatory again, and Tuor takes this as his cue to press a brief, bristly kiss to the side of Idril's neck before rolling to the other side of the bed, standing, and walking about it to stand before her, gently accepting their son from her arms.

"Sometimes grown-ups do that," Idril can hear him telling Eärendil softly, even as Voronwë also comes to stand before her, offering his hands to pull her to her feet. "Why? Oh, well, because we're silly that way. Sometimes our hearts know that we're safe and warm but our minds tell us that we're cold and alone, and we don't always know which one to believe. No, I don’t know why either, boyo – yes, maybe someday you can fly to the West and ask the Valar yourself, I'm sure!"

Standing now, Idril and Voronwë wait a few minutes longer while Tuor talks their son out of some of his wilder plans, and promises to look into others on the morrow. Then, as Tuor steps back, Voronwë takes his fate in his hands and steps forward to brave any lingering effects of their son's earlier ire.

It is Tuor who comes to join her now, whose arms Idril draws closer about herself, and together they watch Voronwë kneel beside Eärendil's bedside, the young prince following his every move with inscrutable eyes.

"Can you forgive me, little one, for my inability to persuade your mother?" the mariner whispers, as soft and serious as if begging penance for some far greater crime.

Eärendil lets Voronwë linger in guilt for a moment longer before sitting up and flinging his arms around the startled mariner's neck, dragging him in for a full-body hug that Voronwë slowly returns. "I won't be mad anymore if you help me throw snow at Papa tomorrow!" Eärendil tells his father gleefully, his voice carrying easily to his other parents despite his best attempts to whisper.

"Ungrateful little traitor," Tuor huffs against Idril's hair, sounding completely amused again, but Voronwë nods his bowed head seriously, promising: "Of course, my prince."

"Two ungrateful traitors!" Tuor laments, laughing, as Voronwë reluctantly relinquishes the hug and stands, making room for Idril to take his place at their son's side.

And, bolstered by them all, Idril steps back across the room as easily, as lightly, as if her feet had never been frozen in place at all – not here, by the window looking out into the snowy night beyond, and not upon the Helcaraxë, watching that dark gash in the ice as it had swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. It is easy, now, for her to bend and kiss her son good night, wishing him sweet dreams and hearing his tired little voice promise that he will see her tomorrow, to throw snow at Tuor; it is easy to rejoin her husband, watching their lover slip across the room and draw the troublesome curtains closed, and then to withdraw together to the larger bedchamber just across from Eärendil's.

And it is simple, and easy, and good, to let herself be swept up by Tuor as soon as they have stepped over the threshold, as he hefts her off her feet and into a kiss of his own.

His lips are more chapped than Voronwë's had been, his beard a rasping counterpoint where Voronwë's face is entirely smooth. But both their arms are warm and strong, and both of them are Idril's.

When they must part ways to catch their breath, Tuor is smiling up at her, and she is smiling down at him. And Voronwë stands by the door, his eyes soft and warm as he watches them both.

"All right, love?" Tuor asks, quietly, his arms yet strong and still about her waist, and Idril can only nod, tell him something of the same that she had said to Voronwë before.

"I was cold before, but I am well, now."

"My excellent mariner," Tuor says approvingly, knowing full well that Voronwë will catch this praise of him even from his place at the door. "And yet – warmed through and through, would you say, or is there more that we can do for you this night?"

And oh but this is just like Tuor, to use soft jests about bed to sweeten his honest concern – to give Idril the choice of how much she wishes to tell them of what happened, or else how much she wishes to brush away with a teasing rejoinder of her own.

And tonight, Idril decides in a rush, there is nothing new to add that she has not feared, or spoken of to them, a thousand times before. There is nothing that she cares to relive tonight, what with these two strong sets of arms – and more – at her disposal.

And so, she responds to her husband's jesting in kind. "Warm enough," she tells him archly: "but of course I am not foolish enough to refuse further heat, if it is on offer."

"It is always on offer," Tuor promises, with a roguish wink even as he sets her gently down. "And besides, I hear that the crown prince of Gondolin would like some insolent sailor punished, if seeing justice done would please my lady!"

Mmmm. Watching Tuor hold Voronwë down, take him hard, is always a delight – and they have yet to find anything else that wrings quite the same lovely noises from their mariner as a little roughness – but Idril finds that this is not quite what she desires tonight.

"Justice might wait, I think," she says, with a solemnity at once real and feigned – feigned, in that the matter is not truly so serious as they are making it sound, but also true, in that Idril _knows_ both Tuor and Voronwë will understand this as her request for something softer tonight. 

"Suppose it can," Tuor muses, matching her mock solemnity with a twinkle in his eyes even as he scoops up one of her hands to his lips and kisses it, fine golden hair tickling her fingers. "Perhaps if the miscreant begs your pardon then, eh? Could let him off easier in that case."

There is a soft gasp from Voronwë by the door – even without looking, Idril knows that he has flushed darker yet, from hearing himself described thus in play – and then the mariner's quiet footfalls are traveling the length of the room to join them, 'til Idril finds herself encircled once more by those whom she knows she can trust to keep her warm.

They have had ample practice with this part before, and the simple robes that Idril favors when apart from her father's court, the simple tunics and breeches that her husband and their lover both prefer, are no match for Voronwë's scarred but nimble fingers, no distraction for Tuor's gentle and wandering hands. Between them, they set her free, spill her out across the great soft bed that they all three share; and then Tuor arranges Voronwë between her legs, to warm and entice her open with his tongue while Tuor behind him coaxes Voronwë open in turn, one slow broad finger at a time. Idril moans her pleasure as Voronwë keens into her, and Tuor lavishes them both with praise for the picture he says they make before him; and only when Idril is shaking with readiness does Tuor gently tug Voronwë back and redirect him, reposition himself, and then drive Voronwë forward right where Idril needs that fullness most.

And for all the need in Voronwë's eyes – for all the eagerness and fire in Tuor's – they gentle themselves for Idril tonight, just as she had asked of them, and more besides. When she whispers to Voronwë that she would see him, he manages to pry his eyes open that she might see the depths of his surrender, Tuor driving him forward into her in a rhythm that pleases them all; when later she cries to Tuor that all she needs now is his touch, he reaches between her and Voronwë to set her off, rubbing at her in soft, sure circles until her vision goes nearly as blank as the snow beyond their chambers. And in the aftermath of it all, Voronwë is hobbling, slightly, when he makes his customary trip from their bed for the warm, wet cloths he always uses to trace reverent patterns across their skin, cleaning away the pleasurable mess they have made of each other.

And even before they pull the heavy coverlet over or they fit themselves against her – Voronwë curled at her front with one shy hand tracing patterns along her arms and Tuor tucked against her back, his arm slung easily across her waist – Idril feels warmer here, utterly unclothed as she is, than she had beneath the great fur cloak earlier.

"All right now?" Tuor at her back asks quietly, the words breathed damp and warm against her skin, and Voronwë murmurs in sleepy counterpoint, wondering the same thing.

And Idril can only smile, reaching down to lace her fingers with Tuor's and encourage Voronwë's hand from her arm to join them.

"So much better," she murmurs, and Tuor presses a pleased kiss to her nape in answer. 

Beyond their window, the snow yet falls and the wind yet howls, but the Echoriath and their winds cannot stand before the arms that encircle Idril here.


End file.
